What a Piece of Work is Man

She didn’t know, but the vivid dreams itched her hands, and the sensation stayed until she picked up a paint brush. The tool in hand, and a pallet of many colors resting on a counter, she succumbed to the need to paint these dreams in mural forms. The shapes and people painted identities remain clueless to her. Day in and day out, her paint brush furiously moved over the canvas of walls, until a month later each wall, plus the ceiling contained imagery of a lifetime and place alien to her, yet familiar. In the center of the ceiling, glowed a buttercup, which finished this piece of work.

“What a piece of work is man…”

Who said that? “Who’s here?”  Going through each room of her Lighthouse Bookstore, her search came up empty. Creepy.

“You mission is completed. The Hippie Ghost Band received your call.”

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